


closer to fine

by civilsmile



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captivity, Cock Cages, F/F, F/M, Gags, HYDRA Trash Party, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Restraints, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 09:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilsmile/pseuds/civilsmile
Summary: "You think the rich Hydra bigwigs want to stick their dicks in someone who'd really rather they didn't?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WIP amnesty! This is unfinished and likely to stay that way, but I wanted to rescue it from the depths of the dumpster.
> 
> Written for a [prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=4442978#cmt4442978) at the hydratrashmeme:
> 
> At some point after the events of CA:TWS, Sharon is captured by Hydra. She's pretty cute, so they decide to keep her for trash party purposes. Always-a-girl!Rumlow remembers the way Sharon stood up to her over the helicarrier launch _(you picked the wrong side, agent)_ and takes an interest. Hydra's pets are highly trained, though, and trash parties are classy events. It will take time to get Sharon ready.
> 
> Rumlow is quite looking forward to it.

Sharon opens her eyes to darkness. Her mouth is dry, her tongue thick and foul-tasting. Her head throbs. She's on her back, the surface beneath her firm but soft—a bed, from the feel of it. Is she blind? No, there's—there's something on her _face_ —

"Hey," someone says. A woman's voice, low and warm. Familiar. Footsteps, a rustle of clothing. _She's right there, fuck, she's standing right over me._ "Easy. You're all right." 

Sharon considers this, and comes up swinging. Or tries to: pain lances through her wrists and shoulders as she's brought up short. Tied—she's tied to a fucking bed—

"Easy," the familiar voice says again, and this time Sharon detects a note of amusement. "I won't hurt you. Calm down, and I'll let you up." 

She yanks hard against the restraints, and bites back a moan as nausea roils her gut. "Who are you? Where the fuck am I?" 

"Hydra base. U.S. soil, though you'll forgive me if I omit the exact coordinates." Polite, on the edge of laughter. "You remember the fight?" She does. Oh god, she does. Reports of Hydra activity. Emergency response. "That was two days ago. You were knocked out, taken prisoner." Movement, the scrape of furniture: a chair pulled up beside the bed. When the woman speaks again, her tone is softer. "You were drugged, and transported under sedation. No other member of your team was captured or killed." 

Slowly, Sharon makes her fists uncurl. Her captor reaches under the thick black cloth to place a cool palm over her eyes, and pulls the bag off her head. Light. When she takes her hand away, Sharon lets out a breath. And looks up at her.

Angular features. Thick, soft brows; a wide mouth. Dark hair shorter than she remembers it, buzzed close to the skull. "Rumlow." 

A lopsided smile. "Agent." 

_She turned on Steve_ , Sharon thinks numbly. _She put a gun to that poor kid's head. She pulled a knife and cut my arm open to the bone._

"Done fighting, for the moment? Gonna let me take the cuffs off?" 

Sharon forces herself to nod. Rumlow turns, reaches for her wrist, and Sharon sees the scar. "Oh."

Rumlow quirks her mouth, without rancor. "Yeah. No more beauty pageants." Six months since the twisted wreckage of the Triskelion, and her left cheek is livid as a brand. "Still look great in a bikini, though." 

Rumlow finishes with the cuffs, and Sharon pushes herself painfully upright, her back to the wall. A narrow bed in a small, neat room. Chair, low table, bookshelf. Television. A door to an attached bathroom. She looks down at herself. Still in her tac gear. Rumlow hands her a bottle of water, two pills in a little paper cup. "Here." 

Sharon makes no move to drink. "You drugged me." 

"Yes." Rumlow's gaze is level, serious. "A needle in your arm. You weren't undressed, or humiliated." She nods toward the bathroom door. "There's a change of clothes for you in there, when you're ready for a shower. Drink: you need it. The pills are Advil. Take them or don't." A small gesture: _look where we are_. "Ask yourself whether I need to play games with you." 

Sharon swallows the medicine, and drains the bottle. The water soothes her aching throat, rinses the scum of sleep from her mouth. Fractionally, her head clears. "What are you going to do to me?"

Rumlow plucks something off the table: a slender circle of smooth grey plastic. She snaps it open into two jointed halves. "Monitoring device. Goes around your neck. You can put it on, or I can." Sharon shrinks back instinctively against the wall. Rumlow makes no move toward her. "Tracks physiological changes—respiration, heart rate, temperature, shit like that. Fancy-schmancy Hydra tech, but harmless. Think of it as a souped-up Fitbit." 

Sharon shakes her head. She's not going to wear their fucking collar. "Fuck you." 

It happens with brutal efficiency. She's strong, and trained, but she's no match for the former leader of the STRIKE team, not at her best and certainly not now, stiff and aching from two days of drugged sleep. Rumlow plants a knee in her gut, tangles a fist in her matted hair to hold her head down. 

Afterward, Rumlow touches the soft-looking fuzz on her own scalp. "That's a stupid advantage to give anyone. I'll cut it for you, if you want. Like mine." She turns her head side to side, posing. 

Sharon flinches, and Rumlow sighs. "That wasn't a threat. I got no plans to fuck you up any worse than you are already. Counterproductive." 

She hugs her knees to her chest. She wants that shower. She needs to take a piss. "Let's try this again. Why am I here?" 

Rumlow shrugs, and leans back in her chair. "We don't need information from you, if that's what you're worried about, and we don't hurt prisoners for sport. You're just cute. We're keeping you to fuck."

Sharon stares. "You're kidding."

Another crooked smile. "No. The Hydra brass like their eager little pets. When it comes to entertainment, you know, you really did pick the wrong side. SHIELD office parties were downright dull."

Sharon lets her mouth curl with contempt. "Eager."

"Oh, we'll get there." Rumlow crosses one booted foot over her knee. "We have a contractor who trains our sluts, but I thought I'd do you special. Not really my area, under normal circumstances, but I'm still on light duty, and the way I figure, I've earned something nice." 

It has to be a sick joke. "Why? Why me?"

"A roomful of agents, and you were the only one to stand the fuck up. You held a gun on me. It was fucking hot." She pauses for effect. "And your friends dropped a building on my face."

"You touch me, Rumlow, I'll kill you."

"I will, though," Rumlow says, not unkindly. "I'm gonna spend _weeks_ touching you. Gonna train all your cute little holes to open up for anything I want to stuff inside you. Gonna tease you for hours while you soak your panties and beg me to send you over the edge. Gonna let you come on Hydra dick, sweetheart, or not at all."

Sharon laughs. She can't help it. "Good fucking luck with that, asshole."

Rumlow smirks. "Oh, what—you think just because you faked it with your little boyfriends, you and I are going to have a problem? Just because they couldn't get you off, scratching your thighs and licking your clit raw, I can't make you cream yourself just pounding you full of a big fake cock and sucking your tits? I think we're gonna get along fine."

Sharon feels the blush spreading across her cheeks. She closes her hands hard, digs her nails into her palms. "Stay the fuck away from me."

"I'm gonna let you take that shower now." Rumlow pushes back the chair and stands. Sharon lifts her chin. "Someone will bring you dinner in—" She checks the time on the TV display. "Three hours. Take a look around: you've got books and movies to keep yourself entertained. We'll get started in the morning." She reaches down, tucks a strand of Sharon's hair behind her ear. "Hey. Listen to me. You're gonna be fine. Nothing I do to you will hurt, unless you piss me off."

"Why are you—" Sharon says, and shuts her mouth abruptly to keep her voice from shaking. "It's like you're trying not to scare me."

Rumlow grins at her, wicked and conspiratorial. "Because we don't want our fucktoys scared. We want their slutty cunts dripping for us. We want them _desperate_."


	2. Chapter 2

Rumlow thumbs the remote, and the bullet vibe, snug in its clever little pocket in the crotch of Sharon's panties, hums cheerfully to life again. One minute on, four minutes off. It hadn't felt like much of anything, at first, but by now it's impossible to ignore. If she could shift her hips, press it more firmly against her clit—but she can't, and she won't give Rumlow the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. 

The training room, as Rumlow had called it, has a cream-colored carpet, and pale yellow walls. ( _That's not necessary_ , Rumlow had said, stepping into her cell and watching Sharon retreat until her back hit the wall. _This is where you sleep: nothing's gonna happen to you in here. Now: you gonna follow me nicely to the training room, or do I need to cuff you and drag you?_ They'd gone with option B, in the end, which resulted in a bloody nose (Sharon) and a great deal of good-natured grumbling (Rumlow). _I think you're smarter than this_ , Rumlow said, afterward, touching a cool cloth carefully to her face. _You got no reason to fight me. I'll just end up hurting you as much as I need to, and then, whatever it is, I'll do it anyway._ ) She's tied down to a padded table, still wearing the loose cotton pants and shirt she'd found neatly folded in her tiny bathroom the night before. A light blanket covers her from chest to toes. The vibe buzzes insistently, maddeningly against her clit. It feels good, but it's not enough.

"This is rape," she says, when Rumlow turns it off again. "You get that, right?"

Rumlow looks up from whatever she's doing on her phone. "Is it? I'm not even touching you. Anyway, I think you like it. I think it's making you wet." 

Sharon's throat goes hot with fury. She grits her teeth. Rumlow bursts out laughing. "You should see your fucking _face_ , sweetheart. Jesus, I'm _kidding_. Relax. Of course it's fucking rape." She puts her phone away and stands. "We're the bad guys, remember? It's good work if you can get it."

_Now_ , Sharon thinks, as the other woman comes closer. _Now, it's now, she's going to—_ But Rumlow doesn't pull the blanket away. She frees Sharon's right hand, and steps back. "Okay, here's the deal: the first one's free. That vibe will feel a whole lot better if you move it how you want it, get some friction. Go ahead."

Sharon leaves her hand where it is. At the risk of repeating herself: " _Fuck you._ "

Rumlow shrugs philosophically. "Suit yourself. I'll give you—say, five more cycles? And then, if you prefer, I'll drag you all dripping and needy back to your cell, and tie you up so you can't touch yourself, and we'll try again tomorrow." 

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Mocking, contemptuous. "On Hydra dick, or not at all?"

"Guess I'm feeling generous." 

On. The sparks of pleasure—not quite right, not quite _there_ —send a wave of frustration through her. It would feel good, to reach down and grind the little toy against her clit. The soft cotton panties are damp with her slick. Under her shirt, under the blanket, she can feel her nipples harden into sensitive nubs. She curls her free hand into a fist. She doesn't move. 

Off. "Why are you doing this?" Her voice comes out rough. "Why bother? If you're going to use me for—for entertainment. Isn't that what you said? I can't stop you." 

Rumlow laughs. "Yeah, that's definitely the kind of enthusiasm I like when I fuck. _Go ahead and get it over with, you sadistic motherfucker._ Thanks, but I'll pass." She touches Sharon's shoulder, lightly, and goes back to her chair. "You think the rich Hydra bigwigs want to stick their dicks in someone who'd really rather they didn't? I hate to say it because it's fucking bleak, but you can get that shit anywhere."

"And you think _enemy combatants_ are your best bet for willing sexual partners?" 

"Aw," Rumlow says, " _willing's_ easy enough. Meet a girl, take her home, do her real nice while she hopes she looks good, hopes she's making all the sounds she's supposed to. Think of the dozen reasons she might be fucking you, and how few of them have a thing to do with her cunt aching to be stuffed. That's _willing_. You don't need to be the boss of an international terrorist organization to get _that_."

On. Sharon rocks her hips, can't help it. The fading ache in her clit throbs to life again, quicker each time as the stimulation builds. She thinks of Rumlow's threat, to leave her bound all night, slick and wanting. Angry heat flashes through her stomach. Her cunt clenches hard. 

Off. She bucks against her restraints, chasing the sensation. The arousal is slower than ever to settle. 

Rumlow's tone is interested, polite: "You ever had an orgasm with another person in the room?" 

Sharon blinks. She has, actually: twice. Once at summer camp, when she was eleven, rocking quietly against her hands in the bottom bunk, three other girls breathing in the dark around her. Once her freshman year of college, furtively touching herself in her narrow dorm bed, her roommate drunk and snoring ten feet away. 

"You don't have to answer. But I feel like, if you don't answer it, though, you're kind of answering it, you know?" That low, infectious laugh. "It's all right. We'll get there." 

On. _Fuck this_. Sharon shoves her free hand into her pants. She ghosts her fingers across the damp cloth of her panties, feels the bulge of the vibe in its neat little pocket. She presses down and circles it firmly over her clit. Again, harder. Again. Pleasure races through her. 

Off. She bites back the soft sound of frustration, and knows Rumlow hears it anyway. She takes her hand away. 

"A little advice," Rumlow says. "If you want it. A minute's not very long. You might want to keep yourself going, while you wait for it to come around again. See if you can build up into it. I appreciate that you're trying, but you've only got two more chances."

There's no point being proud. Not here, not over this. She has one job, which is to survive. None of the rest of it matters. She slides her hand back down, rubs the small weight of the vibe against herself. It feels good, but not—not enough to get her there. She changes the pressure, the motion, experimenting. A promising throb, then nothing. 

On. "Oh _fuck_ ," Sharon says, and feels a wet pulse in her cunt. She grinds the vibe against her clit, urgently now. Her toes curl. The waves of pleasure are building to a rhythm, building—

Off. She works herself, but it's too fast, too hard, and the sensation slips away, the peak eluding her. She can't, like this—this isn't how she does it. She wants to roll over, shove her hands underneath her and rut against her fists. Helplessly, she pulls against the straps. 

On. Need flares through her nerves. It feels good, it feels _so_ good, and she can feel the edge rushing toward her, finally, she's close, she's— From the corner of her eye, she sees Rumlow lift the remote. " _Please_." 

Rumlow leaves it on. She gasps in startled gratitude, her fingers moving without conscious direction, pressing and releasing, adjusting the tiny buzzing thing against her, riding the crest. Now that Rumlow's stopped tormenting her, though, now that she's evidently supposed to get off, she feels the ugly seep of embarrassment wash through her. _She's right there, she's_ watching. _I can't, I_ can't _with her there._ It's not like she's never tried a vibrator before. Brandon, two boyfriends ago, had bought her one, had loved to see her work it against her clit while she rode him. It had felt nice, in an abstracted sort of way, the sensation buried under the overwhelming fact of his proximity, her own nakedness, the low-key discomfort of his cock splitting her open. She turns her head to look. Rumlow's not, in fact, watching her; she's gone back to playing with her phone. For that matter, Sharon's fully clothed, and under a blanket. No pain, no exposure, no one touching or even looking. She can do this. She shuts her eyes and nudges the vibe _just there_ against her sensitized flesh. As if on cue, the vibrations tick up a notch, the faint hum audible now. _Just feel it. Just feel._

She comes hard, shuddering for long seconds through the aftershocks. The vibe wrings spasm after lingering spasm of pleasure from her twitching clit. When it starts to feel like too much, she pulls the little toy away as far as the fabric of her panties will permit. Rumlow flicks it off. 

She's allowed to rest, and then, in the privacy of a tiled washroom, to strip, and shower, and change into a fresh set of clean, soft clothes. When she steps back into the training room, Rumlow smiles up at her and gestures to a chair beside her own. Sharon crosses the thick carpet gingerly, and sits.

"So," Rumlow says. "That was nice." It's not a question. "It's also the last time you'll be coming for a good long while." She flashes the screen of her phone; Sharon doesn't recognize the app. "Your collar has a reading now, on physiological changes during orgasm. You jerk off, I'll know about it. And you are _not allowed_." 

Sharon presses a hand to her own hot cheek, as if it were possible to hide from this conversation. "Well that's creepy as fuck."

"What would you suggest? Leave you tied all night, for real? Inhumane. Video surveillance in your cell? A hell of a lot creepier, if you ask me. Also, who the fuck is going to watch the feed? I don't even _have_ an intern I hate that much." She shrugs. "It's easier, I admit, with our boysluts: we can lock their little cocks away while we train them to serve with their holes, milk them every now and then to drain their poor balls. Can't put a cock cage on _you_ , though, can I? So you get this." She touches two fingers to her own neck. "You won't be tempted for a while, I imagine—we're going to work on other things first, and I can see how falling victim to the depraved excesses of your worst enemy might not be a turn-on—but you _will_ be tempted, and when you are, I want you to remember this. If you make yourself come without permission, I will punish you. Do _not_ make me do that. It'll hurt you and scare you and I've got no interest in it, not at this stage. Hell, I don't want to take your damn clothes off till we get to know each other a bit better. Okay?"

"If you don't want to hurt me," Sharon spits, abruptly and helplessly furious, "then _don't_. Stop talking about it like—like something I can control." 

Rumlow's dark eyes widen a little in surprise. "No," she says slowly. "You're right. You're not the one in control here."

After a moment, Sharon nods. She thinks of Rumlow laughing at her: _you should see your fucking face, sweetheart_. At least they understand each other. There might be some comfort in that.

"So," Sharon says, and swallows. "What. What are we going to work on first?"

"First," Rumlow says, good cheer restored, "I'm going to teach you to suck cock."

_Well shit_ , Sharon thinks, the odd cautious breath of optimism snuffed out. _In that case, we're going to have a problem._


	3. Chapter 3

Sharon curls miserably on her thin mattress and tries to breathe through the pain. She gropes for the small green buzzer, flung disdainfully on the bedside table hours earlier, and cradles it in the palm of her hand. She won't use it to summon her captor. She'll just—just hold it, for a little while. 

She'd followed Rumlow nicely enough to the training room that morning, bare feet padding softly down the cool clean floor of the hallway: left turn, right turn, second door on the right. She'd listened politely to Rumlow's opening remarks—no one expected her to suck cock for the joy of it, the other woman explained, but it was a skill she would eventually feel moved to volunteer, and when the time came she'd want to know what she was doing—and accepted the dildo Rumlow handed her for practice. It was purple, and faintly sparkly, and small. She set it down gently, and explained, as calmly as she could, that neither it nor anything else was going in her mouth. _I don't do that. I'm sorry. No._

Rumlow was slow to anger. _I'm not asking you to deep throat a horse cock, honey, come on, that thing is tiny. We're going for technique, here, not showmanship._ When reason failed to persuade and Rumlow finally resorted to intimidation, Sharon thought she'd won. _You wanna do this the hard way? Want me to strap a ring gag on you, tie you down, get a bunch of my friends in here to rape your whore mouth until you pass the fuck out? That can be arranged._

 _That_ , Sharon said, with all the cool courage she could muster, _is an empty threat. You think I haven't heard a word you've said? You want me eager. You want me_ desperate. _If your friends were going to gang rape me, they would have done it already. Besides, you can get that shit anywhere._

Rumlow had stared at her, until severity melted into laughter. _Well played, sweetheart. Look at you, so fucking smart. But you're forgetting something. The house always wins._

When Rumlow produced the gag, Sharon fought. It wasn't a ring, but a fat rubber ball, and when Rumlow pinned her to the floor and shoved it between her teeth, it stretched her jaw achingly, impossibly wide. Rumlow fastened the straps, a lock clicking into place, and hauled her up by the hair. She'd tied Sharon's hands behind her back, next, and pressed the little buzzer into one of them. _You give me a shout when you're ready to cooperate._ Then Rumlow dragged her back to her cell, and left her alone.

It hurts. It's been hours, and it _hurts_. Her face feels frozen in a rictus of agony, and the pain has bled down into her neck, up into her skull. She'd cried a little, until crying made it hard to breathe, and she'd forced herself to stop. The sheet under her throbbing cheek is soaked with drool, a cold slick mess that dribbles uncontrollably over her lips and chin. The last time she'd tried to shift her head, the room had swung dizzily as pain screamed through her jaw. 

_This is where you sleep_ , Rumlow had said. _Nothing's gonna happen to you in here_. She wants to cry again at the betrayal, as overwhelmingly stupid as that is. She'd explored the little cell her first night there. The shelf did indeed hold books, though upon inspection it appeared the library could benefit from a measure of diversification. They were all about sex. Instructional, theoretical, erotic. The DVDs stacked alongside them made her blush. Still, the material to occupy her mind—if in one rather focused direction—confirmed the message she'd gathered from the presence of the clock: the confinement itself was not meant as a cruelty. She wasn't supposed to go crazy in here. In the bathroom, she'd found toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. Soap and shampoo in the shower; lotion, deodorant, and a little silver pair of nail clippers in a drawer. Pads and tampons under the sink. No brush, no razor, no cosmetics. She'd combed her long wet hair with her fingers. 

She thinks despairingly that she'd been a fucking fool, backing Rumlow into a corner like this. Her captor has every advantage, and Sharon won't survive by forcing her into a battle of wills. She hadn't known what else to do, though, and she still doesn't. She can't do what Rumlow wants. Her hand closes helplessly around the buzzer. The pain in her head—damaging, insupportable—has begun to frighten her. 

She waits another hopeless hour before pressing the green button. When there's no sound, no evidence that anything has happened, she feels herself slide toward panic. She rubs her face hard against the bed, sparks of torment exploding in her skull, desperate to dislodge the gag. She twists with all her strength against the rope binding her hands, feeling it bite again into her bruised and bloody wrists. 

When Rumlow opens the door, Sharon can't help the pleading sound she makes. She's crying again, her nose running, her chest painfully tight. Rumlow regards her calmly. 

"Ready to comply?"

She nods frantically. She can't, she _can't_ , but she can't take another minute of this either. 

"That's nice," Rumlow says. "I'm glad to see you're feeling more cooperative. Now, the question is: do I think you've learned your lesson? I don't want to have to go ten rounds with you over every little thing. It's been—" She checks her phone. "Almost five hours. You're ready to be done, but I'm not so sure: you were pretty stubborn this morning. It might take another hour or two, don't you think, for the message to really sink in?"

"No," Sharon says, " _no_ ," but it comes out as a wounded moan. She lurches off the bed, falling clumsily to her knees. She can't even crawl, with her hands tied behind her. Head bowed low, she shuffles grotesquely toward Rumlow's feet. "No. Please. No more." Another tortured, garbled grunt.

Rumlow closes the distance between them and kneels smoothly, reaching around Sharon's head to unfasten the lock. "Okay," she says, as the gag comes free. "Hey. I'm just fucking with you. You're okay. We're done." 

She can't close her mouth properly. Her breath makes an awful, whining sound. Rumlow leaves her there on the floor for a moment while she fetches a towel from the bathroom and spreads it over the soiled bed, and then she's lifting Sharon like a child, one arm supporting her shoulders, the other under her knees, and setting her down gently on the clean white cloth. Rumlow perches on the edge of the mattress beside her, and runs a hand lightly over her hair. Carefully, she drags the tips of her fingers in slow circles against Sharon's aching scalp. 

"Shake your head if you want me to stop," Rumlow says. "Like I said, we're done. I'll go if you want." But it feels good, and her pathetic gratitude spills another hot wash of tears. Rumlow dabs them away with her sleeve. "All right. All right, sweetheart. Not much fun, hm? Give it a minute. There we go." She rubs softly at Sharon's forehead, at her temples, at the burning muscles of her neck. Finally, feather-light, at her cheeks, and the hinge of her jaw. When Sharon starts to shiver, Rumlow pulls the blanket over her. 

"That was my fault, wasn't it," Rumlow says, her hand returning to Sharon's head, her touch a little firmer now. "I told you: this isn't really my area. I talked to Lucy—our consultant. She's very good. She had some choice words for me. Turns out I was supposed to ask you why." Rumlow's voice takes on the over-enunciated quality of recitation. "You can't kidnap random people and turn them into sex slaves without running into the occasional hang-up. It's to be expected." Her tone softens into seriousness. "Luce had one girl, apparently, a year or two back, she had to let go." Sharon whimpers fearfully, and Rumlow makes a soothing sound. "That's not a euphemism for a bullet to the head. I mean actually let go. Which—you will be, too, when we're bored with you. This isn't forever. But this girl—well, she'd been a victim, when she was little. Of the household crime. And Luce said she just, she had this look as though—as if she knew her whole good life since then had been a dream, borrowed time before she woke up right back in hell where she started. Like she was relieved, almost, because at least the wait was over. And even Luce couldn't do anything with that. That's not fun for anyone." 

They sit a moment in silence, Rumlow's hand against her hair kind as a blessing. Sharon works her mouth carefully. She can get her teeth together, now, but it still hurts. She thinks it will for a while. 

"So," Rumlow says. "What's your problem? Some asshole fuck you up?"

No. Sharon feels her face heat, and wonders dully that she is not yet beyond embarrassment. It's nothing, compared to that—it's childish, and fake-sounding, and no one's fault at all, just a fact. "I'm," she says, and doesn't know how to go on. Her voice sounds mangled. She'd told her boyfriends she didn't want to, after the first few disastrous tries, and that had been that. "Fastidious." It's the word her mother had used, to summarize a host of related particularities: the foods that couldn't touch each other, or be eaten at all; the outsized fear of poisons and contamination; the tastes and textures that sparked a disproportionate disgust. "S-slimy things, in particular. I can't." She still scraped the filling out of fruit pies, spread the thinnest layer of jam on toast. "I can't tolerate, um. Come. In my mouth."

Rumlow blows out a breath too gentle to be a laugh, but Sharon hears the release of tension. "That's _it?_ You don't want people coming in your mouth?" Sharon nods painfully. Rumlow scrubs a hand over her hair. "Jesus. That's _fine_ , honey. That's not a big deal. Like it's such a hardship to pull out and come all over your pretty face." She pauses. "That okay?" 

Sharon feels her blush deepen. "Yes." No part of this is okay. But the thought doesn't stir the same antipathy, the same absolute rejection. 

"What about girls, hm? Can you eat pussy?" Sharon makes herself nod. Rumlow hums low in her throat, a knowing sound. "Let me guess. College?" Yes. Sharon closes her eyes, and doesn't dignify that with a response. Rumlow huffs in private amusement, and shifts her weight on the bed. "All right. Enough for one day, yes? Rest a bit. We'll pick it up tomorrow."

"Can you—" Sharon says, and shuts her mouth in horror. 

"Can I what?"

It's no good. She can't help it. "Stay. For a minute. Please."

"Sure," Rumlow says, after a beat. "Sure, sweetheart." She shifts again, settling in, leaning her back against the wall. Her cool fingers return to Sharon's jaw, both hands now, delicately unlocking the tension there. Sharon feels a few more tears slip down her cheeks, feels Rumlow brush them softly away.


	4. Chapter 4

"How you doing?" Rumlow says, securing the last of the knots and stepping back. "That feel okay?"

The beautiful boy takes a small, shaky breath. "Yes, mistress. Thank you." 

Rumlow rolls her eyes at Sharon, but her voice, when she speaks, is warm. "Good boy." His full, pink lips part softly at the praise. A blindfold shelters his expression, preserving his modesty, but Sharon sees a delicate flush heat the translucent skin of his cheeks. 

Satisfied with her handiwork, Rumlow moves close again, and the boy's face tips toward her as he senses the nearness of her body. She smooths her hands across his chest, tracing the taut muscles, teasing a sound from his throat as the pads of her fingers catch his small brown nipples. He is stretched upright on a wooden frame, his legs spread, his wrists bound above his head. In the low light of the training room, his skin gleams gold. Rumlow strokes his narrow waist, his strong thighs, gentling him to her touch.

"I'm going to take the cage off now. Ready?" 

The graceful line of his throat ripples. "Yes, mistress. Okay." 

Sharon feels her own face warm as she lets herself look, finally, at the polished metal sheath between his legs, forcing his cock into a downward curve, keeping it small and soft. His skin is smooth, hairless, and she can see the ring that anchors the device behind his balls, the second ring with its tiny padlock at the base of his shaft. He turns his head away as Rumlow handles the cage, pressing his face to his own raised shoulder as if to stifle some sound. Sharon hears his breath catch as she slips it carefully free.

"You're both in training," Rumlow says. "Will, Sharon belongs to me; Sharon, Will is one of Mistress Lucy's pets." She says it with a straight face, although the boy can't see her. "Sharon is learning to serve with her mouth. Will, what are you learning?"

The boy says softly, "Control."

"Good. That's right." She turns to Sharon. "Our boysluts spend a long time learning to take cock. It's good for them, taking load after load in their ass, in their mouth, while their own little cocks stay locked up tight. The cages are made for long-term wear. But there are always partygoers who enjoy a good hard fucking, and so when they're ready we teach them to please with their cocks as well. For that, though, they need to learn a little discipline."

It's been a week, since the brutal lesson of the gag—a week spent practicing on dildos and blushing furiously at Rumlow's filthy suggestions. _Messier is better_ , her captor had insisted, as Sharon swallowed convulsively and wiped self-consciously at her chin. _Let your spit get everything nice and wet, let it drip down to where you're pumping the shaft with your hand. Oh, look, give it here._ Rumlow had shown her what she meant, and then, with a flourish, she'd taken her hand away, and shown her something else. _Showoff_ , Sharon said, for lack of any other response, and Rumlow grinned. _That's right: I wasn't always the baddest motherfucker in the room. When you're a new recruit, there are skills it pays to pick up fast._ She laughed at the look on Sharon's face. _Come on, stop that. You keep leaking that shit everywhere, you're going to get some on me._

"Now," Rumlow says. "Listen, Will, this is important. Sharon doesn't like come in her mouth. But she doesn't have to worry about that with you, does she?"

The boy's cock, free of its cage, is already starting to harden. Rumlow drags her fingers lightly over the sensitive head. "N-no, mistress."

"Good. And why not?"

"Because. I'm not allowed." 

"That's right. You have to learn to control yourself, even when the cage comes off. Did Mistress Lucy tell you what it will be like, when you're ready to serve with your cock?"

"Yes." His voice takes on a dreamlike quality, slow and soft, as if he has recited the words many times yet cannot grasp their import. "I'll be let out of the cage to fuck my masters and mistresses, those that desire it. As long and as hard as they want. And when they're done using me, they'll ice me until I'm soft, or just—wait, and then they'll put me away. Back in the cage."

Sharon feels something twist, low in her belly. Rumlow meets her eyes, and smiles. "So you never get to come?"

The boy shudders as Rumlow twists her hand. "Only when I'm—milked." 

"Mm. You don't like that, do you?"

" _No_ , mistress." 

He is fully hard now. Rumlow steps back. "No. All that come dribbling out of your poor soft cock, and no release, no relief. Still, it's what you need." She nods to Sharon. "All right. He's ready. Let's see what you've learned."

_He'll be bound_ , Rumlow had said, explaining the exercise. _And you'll be on your knees. Everyone should feel suitably subjugated: I don't want to hear any whining about cooperation, or complicity. I'm calling the shots, and you'll both do what I say or I'll fuck you up. Nice and simple._

A sense of unreality creeps over her. She has no idea of the structure or extent of this Hydra base, has seen only her cell and the training room, but she is suddenly sure: they are deep underground. She feels the weight of earth and concrete above her. The clock in her cell won't save her, or the books with their bright spines: she is buried far from sunlight, and the logic of the waking world will not interpose itself between her and her captor. She doesn't want Rumlow to hurt her again.

She moves slowly, to take Rumlow's place before the bound figure. The first touch feels impossible, the slender space of air between them an unbridgeable expanse. It's too unlikely, too absurd to be happening. But Rumlow is real, her presence bright and hot as a star. Rumlow, and the pain she can inflict. Gently, expecting him to flinch, Sharon reaches out to lay her palm over the boy's heart.

He sighs at her touch, as she folds softly to her knees on the thick carpet. She caresses the flat plane of his belly, sucks a small biting kiss into the tender skin of his inner thigh. "Good," Rumlow says, and Sharon can hear the pleasure in that low voice, the approval. "Remember, just like we practiced." Sharon lets her eyes fall shut, and brushes her closed lips lightly against the head of his cock, a chaste kiss. His skin is warm, and velvet-soft.

She licks and kisses her way down the shaft, familiarizing herself. Getting everything wet. Rumlow's voice in her head is clear and patient, inescapable. _When you're ready, make a ring with your lips, and slide your head down as far as you feel comfortable. Good. Get a fist around him to provide more stimulation and control the depth, not that anyone's likely to be impolite._

The boy moans as she parts her lips at last to take him in. "Beautiful," Rumlow says. "Nice and easy." She feels his cock swell and twitch. "Will, communication is important here. If you feel like you're gonna lose it, ask Sharon to wait. She'll back off, give you a minute to cool down. Sharon, if he does start to come—he shouldn't, I know he'll do his best, but just in case—you stop all contact right away, ruin his orgasm. You ever seen that? The come will just drip out, instead of spurting. A fraction of the pleasure, and incredibly frustrating. It's pretty cute, actually—I'll show you sometime—but not what we're going for today." 

She hears the memory of Rumlow's cool instructions. _See that nickel-sized area, just below the head? Try pressing there with the pointed end of your tongue. Good, again. It's very sensitive; some men can come from stimulation of that place alone._ The boy gasps, and tenses in his bonds. A thick drop of pre-come beads onto her tongue, and she spits it back out, uses her hand to smear the slick mess over the head of his cock. _If you need a break, for any reason—if your jaw starts to hurt, or you're having problems with taste or texture—just go back to kissing and licking. It's not a test of endurance: intermission is when you say it is._ She licks a broad, firm swipe along the seam on the underside of his cock. "Oh," he says. "Oh. _Please_." 

_We'll pick it up tomorrow_ , Rumlow had said, stroking her hair, touching her aching face with hideous kindness. They hadn't, though: Sharon was still in too much pain, the muscles of her jaw locked up in screaming protest, and her tormentor had left her alone. So it wasn't until the next day that Rumlow had demanded to know _where the hell you got that idea, anyway? That you couldn't suck cock at all, without letting the guy come in your mouth? You could've just asked for a little warning, you know, and finished things off by hand. With your boyfriends, I mean._ She'd blushed, because Rumlow made it sound dumb, and told the truth, which was that she'd tried, back when she was still with Paul. He'd wheedled, insisting that it wouldn't feel as good, but she'd managed to be firm about what she thought she could do and what she knew she couldn't. He'd agreed, eventually, and it had been sort of nice, hearing him groan in appreciation as she sucked him down, until instead of warning her he'd closed a big hand in her hair and held her face against his crotch until he finished. He apologized, and they stayed together another six months or so, but she hadn't tried again, with him or anyone else. _Got it_ , Rumlow said.

The boy makes a strangled noise. " _Wait_. Wait, please." She pulls off, sitting back on her heels to look up at him. The flush has spilled down to his chest. His lower lip looks tender, bruised. He rocks his hips helplessly, seeking sensation, his cock twitching in the empty air. She feels a humiliating flash of heat between her own legs. 

"Again," Rumlow says, after a minute, and the boy whimpers as her mouth closes around him. Ashamed and aroused by the cruelty of it, she lets her tongue caress the sensitive head of his cock. "Don't forget to use your hands. Try pressing a thumb just behind his balls, or pulling down gently on his sack."

"Mistress," the boy begs, and Sharon can hear the edge of tears in his voice. "Mistress, please let me, I need it—"

Sharon backs off this time without waiting to be told. He moans in frustration, his whole body tensing as he pulls at the ropes. Rumlow laughs. "Good girl. But I think he can take a little more, don't you? Again." 

_I could let him_ , Sharon thinks. _I could_ make _him._ She shivers. She doesn't want to see what Rumlow would do, to either of them. She swallows him down fast, her lips meeting the thumb and forefinger of her own hand, and pulls off with agonizing slowness, her tongue describing delicate patterns on the underside of his cock. Pre-come leaks steadily now. "Please," he begs. Begs _her_ , Sharon thinks, not Rumlow. "Oh, _please_."

His cock jerks hard, and she hears him take a deep breath and hold it. "Stop," Rumlow says. "That's enough." Sharon pulls away. The wooden frame creaks as the boy throws his weight against it. When he sags at last in his bonds, defeated, Rumlow gets the ice. She speaks softly to him, petting his hair and the damp skin of his cheek, and Sharon sees him nod—reluctantly, once, and then more firmly. Rumlow kisses him briefly, on the lips, and locks him back into the cage.


End file.
